


Annual

by INMH



Series: trope-bingo fanfiction fills 2020 [6]
Category: The Order: 1886
Genre: (or as fluffy as these two can get), Alcohol, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Guilt, M/M, Romance, Strong Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25987582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/INMH/pseuds/INMH
Summary: Alastair forgets a significant date; Grayson does not.
Relationships: Alastair D'Argyll/Grayson
Series: trope-bingo fanfiction fills 2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1848508
Kudos: 6





	Annual

**[-The Third Day of December, 1887-]**  
  
Grayson was getting predictable.  
  
Alastair really needed to take him to task over it, honestly, because if _he_ could find his old friend this easily, so could anyone else if they had a mind to. But then, it wasn’t hard to find a Rebel in Whitechapel if one knew where to look.  
  
Grayson was seated on a rooftop of a building that Alastair was not sure, but was at least somewhat confident was a Rebel-controlled property. Much of their time together was spent on a rooftop of some sort, mostly because they had the skill and agility to reach such heights, but also because they were far less likely to be spotted together there. If Grayson was on this one all alone at night, Alastair assumed he had some expectation of privacy.  
  
Alastair scaled the side of the building, and not for the first time was at least grateful for the small conveniences of being a Lycan: What would have had any other member of the Order grunting and struggling, he did with relative ease. While with the Order, Alastair had been forced to put on those little noises, those little signs of strain and effort; now he didn’t have to pretend that he was weaker than he was.  
  
It was one of the few things that had been consistently good since his ‘death’.  
  
The second was currently slumped against the rising wall of the neighboring building, and he started when Alastair scrambled onto the roof.  
  
“God,” Grayson grunted. “Thought you were a Vampire.”  
  
“No, no, just a Lycan,” Alastair assured. Then he stopped, sniffing the air; his suspicions were confirmed when he realized that Grayson had a bottle of brandy in his hand, resting on his lap. “Grayson,” Alastair drawled, playful chastisement in his voice. “Are you drunk?”  
  
Grayson pulled a comedic, exaggerated expression of embarrassment, which was really all the answer Alastair needed. “ _No,_ certainly not.”  
  
Alastair snorted, crossing his arms. “I should call Gilbert: I’m certain after a bit of opium you and he would produce some _glorious_ conversations.”  
  
“ _No,_ ” Grayson groaned. “God, I’ve- I’ve nearly forgotten that, don’t go and tell me… don’t remind me now.”  
  
Alastair shook his head, dropping down a few feet away and leaning against the wall as well. “I cannot remember the last time you were- oh, wait, no, we found that wine in the house outside the city. And then, of course, there was the United India Company House. We were both a bit sauced then, weren’t we?”  
  
“Sauced enough to fuck,” Grayson remarked, in a voice that might have been smoother and more sardonic if it weren’t wavering under the weight of drink. “Have, uh… Have we ever committed sodomy without a little…?” He lifted the bottle and gave it a little shake.  
  
Alastair thought on it for a moment. “Not to date, I don’t think.”  
  
“Hm,” Grayson crawled forward and kissed him sloppily, hands going for Alastair’s belt with a surprising and uncharacteristic lack of abandon.  
  
“No, no, come now, you’re too far gone for that,” Alastair scolded, knocking Grayson’s hands away. The fact that the man couldn’t even manage to get his belt off in a timely fashion strongly suggested that he wouldn’t be able to manage any dexterity during sex, either.  
  
“Hmph _._ ”  
  
“Come, come,” Alastair said, pulling Grayson to lie back against his chest.  
  
“’s what I was aiming to do.”  
  
Alastair snorted loudly, chuckled. “ _Grayson_ , that is positively vulgar.”   
  
“Ask me if I care.”  
  
“It’s obvious you don’t.”  
  
They sat nicely like that for a while, with Grayson’s head on his chest and Alastair’s arms wrapped around Grayson’s chest. It was rare for them to engage in such a level of physical intimacy (at least while they both still had their clothing on), especially when they weren’t safely shielded by the walls of a room. Theoretically, anyone could come out onto the roof (or a neighboring roof of the same or similar height) and see them together like this- it wouldn’t even matter whether they were Rebels or Half-breeds, the implication of a relationship that allowed for sodomy would be enough to land them in boiling hot water.  
  
“Is there a reason,” Alastair mumbled after a time, “Why you’ve gone and decided to get absolutely blasted on cheap brandy-”  
  
“Devi will be _horrendously_ offended,” Grayson slurred.  
  
“-alone on a rooftop in plain sight of anyone who might be willing to report you to the authorities?”  
  
“Hmm.” For a moment or two, Grayson was silent and Alastair assumed that that was all the answer he was going to get. But then Grayson said, “Do you, mm… Do you not remember what day it is?”  
  
Alastair frowned. “What day it is?”  
  
“The date.”  
  
“Ah… Nove- no, no, December, it’s December… third?”  
  
Grayson awkwardly nodded his head without lifting it from Alastair’s chest, which lead to his cheek and forehead awkwardly scratching and dragging against the buttons of Alastair’s coat. “Don’t suppose you remember where we were, or what we were doing on the third of December this time last year?”  
  
Alastair froze.  
  
Why yes, in fact, he _did_ remember: This was the night he had tried to kill Tesla, and then tried to kill Grayson (for the second time). This same night, Grayson had refused to kill him and instead hauled him out through the catacombs; they had escaped the city together and not returned until Spring. Depending on the time, they might even be lined up with their escape right now- or maybe they were closer to the part where Grayson had declined to put a bullet in his skull.  
  
The familiar wave of guilt rose, crested, crashed into Alastair and made him grimace.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Mm-hm.”  
  
“And you’ve decided that getting hopelessly drunk is a great way to commemorate the anniversary?”  
  
Not surprising: It wasn’t exactly a cavalcade of _happy_ memories (more ones of exile and betrayal) he would be experiencing right now. Now that he realized the significance of the date, Alastair himself was feeling the urge to down a few bottles too, if he was being honest.  
  
“Mmmm.”  
  
“I thought we’d established that _I_ was the melancholy drunk,” Alastair muttered ruefully. “Not you.”  
  
“My turn,” Grayson grunted. He shifted a little, but was otherwise deadweight on Alastair’s chest. Now that he wasn’t sitting up or drinking, now that he was somewhat horizontal and, perhaps, confident that he could let his guard down, Grayson seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep.  
  
“Yes, alright, I suppose it can be your turn this time,” Alastair sniffed, rubbing a hand up and down Grayson’s back and settling the other on his hip. It would really be better to sneak him back into his room, put him to bed properly and drastically reduce their odds of being found together.   
  
But the longer this relationship between them went on, the more honest they became with one another, the closer they became, the more Alastair’s skin prickled at the memory of his betrayal. He had not wanted things to unfold the way they had a year ago; he had not wanted to betray a man he had known for so many years. The shame grew somehow even more intolerable as time went on, as Grayson slowly became the absolute last person he felt he could entirely trust.  
  
The intense, unforgiving guilt needled Alastair aggressively: _Sod safety, the least you can do is sit with him for a while. It’s your fault he feels the need to drown himself in alcohol in the first place._  
  
And so Alastair kept his arms around Grayson, let him snore against his chest and ignored the slightly biting wind that was blowing between the tight buildings of Whitechapel. Eventually he let his head dip to rest against Grayson’s, let his eyes drift shut, let himself doze off for just a few minutes because Alastair had no place else he needed or especially wanted to be.  
  
The next thing he knew, there were roosters crowing.  
  
Alastair’s head shot up, then jerked around: The sky was much lighter than it had been before, he was _much_ colder, and his back was suffering from the sort of stiffness one got from hours of sleeping in an awkward position, not minutes. “Gray,” he said groggily, giving Grayson shove. “ _Grayson_ , get up.”  
  
“Hmph,” Grayson grunted, and didn’t move.  
  
“Grayson, _get up._ ”  
  
Alastair gave him a harder shove, and this time Grayson spluttered awake. “Wassit?” He slurred.  
  
“Get up, get _up_ , we’ve been out here all night,” Alastair groaned. God, but it was a miracle they weren’t being woken up by group of officers- or worse, Knights- with their guns drawn. “You need to go back inside.”  
  
Grayson made a strange noise, curling up on the roof and covering his head; the hangover had set in with gusto, it seemed.  
  
Alastair sighed. “Come on, come here.”  
  
What followed was a nerve-wracking attempt to haul Grayson back to his room. This required pulling him through the (thankfully, unlocked) rooftop doorway and down the hall, and counting the doors as Alastair tried to remember which door was Grayson’s. He had been in Grayson’s room before, but had always entered through the window, not through the door. He sniffed, trying to figure out which room had whiffs of Grayson’s usual scent coming from it.  
  
Alastair stopped before one door, grimacing. If he was wrong, it would end ugly; for him _and_ Grayson.  
  
He was relieved when the door opened into familiar territory: This was definitely Grayson’s room. Alastair hauled him over to the bed, and Grayson fell onto it like dead weight with barely a grumble of protest. Under different circumstances, Alastair might have felt compelled to make Grayson more comfortable, maybe undress him a bit and pull the covers over him, but it was a gift that Alastair had gone this long in a Rebel base without being detected and he didn’t intend to push it any further.  
  
“We’ll talk again soon,” he said quietly, brushing a hand down Grayson’s arm and then turning towards the window-  
  
“ _Hrn._ ”  
  
Grayson had grabbed Alastair’s arm. He didn’t seem any more coherent than he had been before, but he did limply try to drag Alastair into the bed with him again.  
_  
Tempting, but I’m afraid not._  
  
This time he leaned down, hesitated, and then kissed Grayson’s cheek.  
  
“I’ll see you soon, Gray,” Alastair whispered. “Drink your Blackwater and get some sleep.”  
  
And then Alastair detached his hand from Grayson’s, crept to the window, and hopped out without a sound, disappearing into the early morning light.  
  
-End


End file.
